


Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?

by Thea_Bromine



Series: Kaleidoscope [4]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 14:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_Bromine/pseuds/Thea_Bromine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles and Xander discover Xander's rôle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Reality Check For Xander, Who Doesn't Rate Reality

What Xander really _really_ wanted was for there to be no more of today. Or this week. Or this year. In fact, next time Giles was in any sort of state for conversation, Xander was going to ask him what exactly was wrong with an apocalypse and whether they could order one in. A good big one which resulted in the End of Everything.

If the End of Everything wasn’t on offer, he could do with... with his arm not hurting. He’d had all the meds he was allowed and it didn’t scream at him any more, but there was a dull ache which set his teeth on edge.

He wasn’t sure that it was all physical either. Things hurt. It hurt that Willow... that Willow was hurt. That hurt like a sore place on a tooth: he had to keep touching it to see if it hurt as much as he remembered, and it always did. It hurt that Buffy _no he was not going to think about Buffy because he didn’t know what he did think about Buffy._ It hurt that Giles was hurt.

Xander couldn’t actually get his head round how much Giles was hurt. Giles was hurt in places that... thinking about being hurt in those places made Xander’s own places hurt. Xander _knew_ how much pain Giles could stand, he’d seen him stand it, more than once, and in the hospital, Giles had _screamed_. They’d given him some sort of injection before they put his shoulder back the way it ought to be and put the pins in his hand, and even with the injection, he had screamed. It had been a horrible breathy noise like he hadn’t anything left to scream with, and Xander had been out in the corridor because they wouldn’t let him stay with Giles, and he had thought he was going to barf just at Giles making that noise. And then Giles had discharged himself and all the hospital staff – it couldn’t have been _all_ the staff but it looked like it – had come and argued with him, and he had just kept saying that he was leaving. Somebody had decided that because he was a foreigner he was worried about the insurance – that maybe he didn’t have any – and there had been several conversations in different directions about whether he needed to pay for anything and how they had people they could call if he didn’t have cover, and how the doctors couldn’t in good conscience approve his leaving, with Xander saying at intervals that Giles _had_ insurance and he’d filled in all the forms about it, and one of the nurses – Xander recognised her from a previous go-round at the hospital and plainly she recognised Giles too and knew a lost cause when she saw one – trying to put together a meds pack and tell him what to take when. In the end Xander had caught her eye and held out his hand, and she had led him into a corner.

“Your dad is going to need help with these.”

“He’s not...” and Xander had caught himself. If they thought Giles was going home to a happy organised nuclear family ready to fuss over him, rather than to an empty apartment with the memory of a dead woman in his bed and a load of anti-apocalyptic books, they might make less of a deal about it. And if the Giles family was more unclear than nuclear and made up of a missing Slayer and an injured witch and a worried werewolf and Xander, nobody needed to know about that.

“He’s not good with that sort of thing. Probably better to tell me? Are there instructions in the packets?”

God, he wished he hadn’t asked, except that if he hadn’t asked, Giles would almost certainly either not have taken the package at all, or taken it home, dumped it and ignored it. As it was, Xander knew what he ought to be taking and had instantly started making plans to get him to take them: pain relief, antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, something to stop all of those upsetting his stomach, and then the same again for external application on the cuts and slices and burns. The burns had turned Xander's stomach. And then there were clean bandages for the wounds and special ones for the burns, and an elastic bandage with a diagram on the outside and the nurse had explained it to Xander anyway, that was to keep his shoulder from popping again, and a sling, and he was _under_ _no circumstances_ to be allowed to meddle with the metalwork on his hand.

He remembered wondering if the nurse knew something; she seemed to be taking this just a little too calmly even for a nurse. And if anybody knew about Sunnydale, he would sorta expect it to be people like nurses, who weren’t ever asked for their opinions so didn’t have to put the denial thing into real hard words, but who saw the bleeding people and the bitten people and the dead people and the not-dead- _enough_ people and perhaps the people who weren’t quite people.

And oh God, Giles had put on The Voice, and suddenly the room had gone quiet, and even Xander had quailed a bit. Giles hadn’t used The Voice in front of him since the Kasr Demon Incident, and even though The Voice wasn’t being aimed at him it still made him jump. The Kasr Demon Incident was how he thought of it, with all the capital letters. It needed a name so that he didn’t have to think about the detail. Incident was a good word; it stopped him having to use any of the other ones he didn’t like, like Fuck-Up because it had been one, his, or Spanking because that was just plain embarrassing. He and Giles had been careful of each other after it; he had fussed a bit after Giles because Giles had been hurt then too, and then panicked because he knew Giles didn’t _like_ people fussing, and Giles had... well, he had rolled his eyes, and smiled faintly, and allowed Xander to fuss, because allowing Xander to fuss over Giles was how Giles fussed over Xander, and Xander had known he was being allowed and had managed to keep it down. And the first time he had made tea and Giles had drunk all of it, right down to the bottom, Xander had gone quietly out into the courtyard and done an ‘I can make tea!’ dance which had scared the living daylights out of Giles’ next door neighbour.

But The Voice and Xander were not best buddies and Xander was pleased that it was being aimed at other people. Whatever words came out in The Voice, what was actually being said was ‘I am telling you what is going to happen, and no part of it is negotiable’. Xander never understood how Buffy could brush off what Giles said when he used The Voice; he couldn’t, not ever. Might as well be a mind controlling eel going in through his ear. Now, The Voice had been saying that all these people were going away so that Giles could put his clothes on and leave, and Xander was sort of hovering in the corner trying to look inconspicuous, because Giles was going to need help to dress and probably walk, and if Giles told him to go, oh God, even if he used The Voice, Xander was going to have to try to resist, and he had no particular hope of success.

Only Giles had turned on him next and he hadn’t sent Xander away. He hadn’t tried to use The Voice either and God, Xander almost wished he had, because however much The Voice made him feel like he was a huge disappointment to Giles, this tightly controlled voice – not Voice – was horribly, hugely, worse. Because this was Giles one step away from broken and a broken Giles wasn’t something Xander was ready for.

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Xander, is she dead?”

“She wasn’t when I came for you. And since we aren’t, and the world doesn’t seem to have ended, she hasn’t lost.” He had known that wasn’t the same as saying that she had won, but... somehow, over the previous few months, since Giles had turned up at the police station, lying to Giles, even the little lies about whether or not he had done his homework, or been to class, had ceased to be an option. He didn’t know if she had won and he couldn’t lie to Giles about it. Wouldn’t.

“We’ve got to go and see.”

And going back to that mansion was low on Xander's list of Fun Things To Do Today but...

“Home first? Clean clothes?” But he had known even as he held out Giles’ shirt and eased it over the strapping, that Looking For Buffy took priority over a shirt with no bloodstains on it.

“I – where’s my car? Still at school? And what time is it?”

It was early. Very early. Early enough that when a deeply suspicious cab driver had dropped them at the school, there was nobody to notice them.

“Fuck! I’ve got no keys.”

“I’ve got them, car keys and house keys both. And your wallet and watch, sorry, I forgot. I was afraid they’d get lost or dropped or something at the hospital so I took them. I shoulda said. Let me drive?” He had made it sound, as best he could, as if Giles had a choice, and waited for the nod of permission before he opened the car.

And he was _not_ going to think about the house. He was _not_ going to think about that damn statue, or about the chair, he wasn’t going to think about that chair and the rope and the blood and the smell of that room _ever again_. He wasn’t going to associate the smell of cigarettes in that room with the round red marks on Giles’ chest and stomach and shoulders and the insides of his elbows. He didn’t smoke, he’d never smoked and everybody knew that smoking was bad for you so he didn’t need another reason never to take it up. He’d gone first in there and he’d stopped Giles from going in by saying loudly ‘there’s nothing here’ because Giles didn’t need to see it again, and when Giles had turned away and limped on to the next door, Xander hadn’t followed him for a minute because he’d been throwing up in the corner.

And then, dear God, they had gone to Giles’ apartment and Xander had pretended not to see the hope on Giles’ face and had definitely _not_ seen the despair when Buffy wasn’t there.

“School. She might be at school.”

And oh fuck but school was only slightly higher on Xander's list than the mansion. He had just wanted to lie down and die. He had wanted to sleep for a week, or preferably forever. He had wanted to take his meds to stop his arm aching, but he needed to check if they said ‘not safe for driving an Englishman’s stick shift car and you mustn’t let him try to do it himself’ or something because if they did he was just gonna have to suck up the pain: no way was he letting Giles drive.

“Yeah, she might be. So look, we can take an hour, right? Make ourselves look a bit more... a bit less... Shall I make tea? And the nurse said you shouldn’t take those meds on an empty stomach so...”

“I, I, yes, tea, but I, I don’t think I can eat anything. You, you, look and see if there’s anything you...”

He had ignored that and had brought Giles a bowl of the cereal Giles ate, the one which looked like something you would feed a horse, with way too much milk on it so that it would go soft and not hurt the stitches inside Giles’ mouth, and Giles had rather blindly eaten about half of it before he realised what he was doing and pushed it away. Xander took that as a win, and had poured himself a bowlful of the one which they both pretended that Giles didn’t buy just for the times he stayed over, the one with the artificial colourings and the sugar and the chocolate chips and the mallow pieces.

He wasn’t sure that he would ever want to eat it again.

Giles had drunk the tea, although he’d had to leave it to go cold, and how weird was that, because Giles was Mr Asbestos Throat normally. Xander had gone through the meds package and lined up what he was due to take, had said something vague about the childproof tops on the bottles and the splints on Giles’ fingers, and had pushed a saucer of pills across the table to Giles as if he was just being helpful. Then he had got up to wash his plate because he knew that if Giles thought he was nagging, he wouldn’t take the damn things, but he had watched Giles’ reflection in the glass door of the microwave and he’d seen the pills go in. He didn’t know whether to be pleased that Giles had taken them, because they would make him feel a bit better, or terrified about how bad Giles had to be feeling _now_ to make him willing to take them at all, or plain bewildered about how well he knew how to manage Giles and how he knew which bits of Giles he wouldn’t be allowed to manage.

And then... Giles had said that he was going to shower, and while Xander was all for it in theory – Xander had found out early on in the whole slayage thing that blood had a smell, and he now knew that fear did too – he really didn’t think it was a good idea for Giles either to be undoing all those bandages or getting them wet. He had been just trying to think of a way of saying so that wouldn’t get him thrown out as Giles stood up, and swayed so alarmingly that Xander had leapt up too, and sort of grabbed at his sleeve, and Giles had...

Giles had _cringed_.

It had been the tiniest movement imaginable, so small that Xander had been able to pretend that he didn’t see it, and he had seen Giles catch his balance on the table edge, and he had let go as if he had meant to do that all along. And then he’d said something about, if the lack of sleep was making Giles light-headed – because _no way_ was he going to say anything about the pain or the shock or... or anything else – he might be better to leave the shower until they came in again, and have a bath then, and soak the bandages off. He could just have a scrub with a washcloth now at all the bits which showed, couldn’t he? And oh dear God, Giles had agreed, and that was another one where Xander wasn’t sure if he was pleased that Giles had agreed or terrified at how bad Giles must be feeling to make him agree.

Only Giles had gone into the bathroom, and then he had discovered that he couldn’t get his shirt off because Xander had fastened his cuffs at the hospital. And he’d had to ask Xander to come in and unfasten them again and Xander honestly didn’t know which of them had been unhappier about Xander having to help.

But Xander had just decided that he was going to do the things which even a doofus like him could see needed to be done, and Giles would let him do them or he’d stop him, but maybe if Xander never mentioned them even while he was doing them, Giles would just let him and they would both pretend that he wasn’t doing anything of the sort. So he had filled the sink, and then he had looked round and taken Giles’ shower gel and put a squish in the water, and squeezed out the washcloth and started very very gently at Giles’ hairline.

And Giles (and this was another of the things he was not ever going to think about again, even though it had been his idea in the first place) _had_ let him. Giles had let Xander wash his face. He’d stood there with his eyes closed, and his hands on the edge of the basin, and Xander had washed his face and his neck for him, just tiny dabs of the washcloth because he wasn’t going to rub, not against skin as swollen and sore as that. Giles’ bad eye was nearly invisible and his lip was split and Xander could have cried for both of them. But Giles had let him deal, so he had rinsed the cloth, and wrung it out, and he had started on Giles’ chest, just laying the cloth on for a moment and then rinsing it clean. He had washed Giles’ chest and Giles’ back, and under his arms and down to his hands, round all the burns and bandages, and oh dear God _Giles had let him_.

And the list of things Xander wasn’t thinking about now included Giles’ chest, because he’d seen Giles with his shirt off before and his nipples weren’t normally that colour, and Xander, who had only recently discovered what his own nipples were for, didn’t want to know what had been done to make them look like that.

He’d seen the next big obstacle approaching and had fought down a major panic and worked out what he thought he could do: he’d dropped the washcloth and picked up Giles’ bath towel and patted his chest dry, and then he’d wrapped the towel around Giles’ waist and tucked it in (and the way Giles had shrunk from him was another of those not-thinky things) and said in a low steady voice, like he was talking to a scared animal, “Just kick your pants off, Giles, we’ll find you some better ones for school in a minute,” and he had turned his back very obviously, and let the water out and run some fresh.

He’d thought lots of times when Giles wouldn’t let him and Buffy _oh God Buffy_ and Willow _please let Willow be all right_ do things, that life would be a hell of a lot better if Giles sometimes just did what _they_ told _him_ , and now Giles _was_ doing that and Xander didn’t like it one little bit. The pants hit the floor and Xander wrung out the cloth again and turned, and knelt down and started just above Giles’ knee, just at the edge of the towel, and Giles flinched again.

He refused with great determination to look up, he’d just gone on dabbing dried blood off Giles’ shin and instep, and then the other leg, and then he’d rocked back and stood up and said in the same calm, low voice, “Can you manage the rest yourself?”

He had been hugely relieved when Giles nodded jerkily. Xander knew all about Bad Touching; Bad Touching had been spelled out to them in one school class or another since he was about ten. Somehow, though, he had never expected to feel that the one doing the Bad Touching was him. He had backed out of the bathroom and closed the door carefully and waited.

Eventually, Giles had come out, still wrapped in the towel, and had looked at him as if he hardly knew who Xander was, and had said in a scratchy voice, “I need to shave but I don’t think I can,” and Xander had been blown away by the sheer irrelevance of it. Like it _mattered_ if Giles went to school a bit fuzzy? Only then he had thought that maybe Giles needed to feel that there was ordinariness happening, and on an ordinary day, _no way_ would Giles have gone to work other than with a smooth face.

“Is it an electric?” because he had thought that between them they might be able to manage, but Giles had shaken his head.

“No, I, I, I wet shave.” They had looked at each other and Giles had raised a hand, and _no way_ was it a good idea to put a blade in anything which shook like that, and Xander didn’t want to do it either. He’d tried wet shaving because his dad wouldn’t buy him an electric razor, and you could get cheap disposables, but he still cut himself one time in three and that was without adding in his plaster and his meds and Giles’ injuries and Giles’ meds.

“Oh! I know. There’s an old-fashioned barber about two doors away from the doughnut shop. I’ve seen people get a shave in there. What... what do we tell them has happened to you? What did you tell them at the hospital?”

“I was mugged and then beaten up by a couple of drug addicts who had broken into the school. I don’t know where they took me. They were high, I don’t think they knew who I was. I got away, and ran, and, and, eventually I found a payphone and I called you. You came for me, and... I didn’t think this through, I don’t know how you got there. Fuck, the hospital will have told the police, somebody will want a statement.”

“O.K., I came for you on my bike, because I couldn’t understand what you were saying on the phone, and you didn’t know where you were, but you told me what it looked like and I worked it out. There’s a payphone at the gas station on Zealand Heights, that’ll do. I think we’ll have to let them find the house, Giles. There’s nothing to see there, and they might trace the cab we took to the hospital. He’ll know where he picked us up. After we picked up your car, we went back and collected my bike. We don’t know which street or which house it was because you had been wandering for half an hour looking for a phone. Why did you call me rather than the police?”

“Shock,” Giles had said shortly. “I’ve been covering social ethics with you and the library group. Rights and responsibilities. Probably that’s why I thought you would help me. And you did because I came to the police station for you and you think you owe me. You’re probably a bit resentful of it and not sorry to have cleared the debt.”

O.K., Giles in Planning Mode was way better than that quiet Giles had been, but it had been truly scary how that brain had just suddenly started ticking over again.

He’d followed Giles up the stairs; Giles hadn’t invited him, and probably really _really_ wanted him not to be there, but Xander had still been going with the ‘just do the things that need to be done’ plan and hadn’t waited to be asked. He’d stopped, trying to look inconspicuous, until Giles had reached for a drawer, and then Xander had just opened it for him, and passed him underwear and socks. He’d had his back very noticeably turned while Giles got his shorts on; that was something where if Giles needed help he really _was_ going to have to ask, because Xander wasn’t going to offer. Xander had been opening the wardrobe and asking “Is there a particular suit, or just this one at the end? What colour shirt do you want? Which tie?”

He’d fastened buttons, and done up Giles’ tie, and shoe laces, and then he’d gone and washed his own face and looked at himself in the mirror and been faintly surprised that he didn’t look worse.

Then they’d gone to the barber, where an elderly man had been shocked and sympathetic at the poor gentleman’s face, and had shaved him with such delicacy that Giles had hardly winced at all, although Xander had noticed that his hand was clawed throughout, and maybe putting him in a chair so that somebody else could touch him hadn’t been Xander's greatest idea. After that, they had gone to school, and Buffy hadn’t been there. Xander somehow hadn’t expected her to be, and Giles somehow had, and Xander found that was yet another thing on his not-thinky list.

But he’d seen Giles into the library and then he’d had two cans of the really high caffeine cola and gone to class, largely because he had absolutely no notion of what else to do, except that at lunchtime he was going back to the library because he’d got all Giles’ meds in his backpack. And he’d found Willow, and what the hell was she doing in school? and Oz, and they’d compared notes and he’d told them the official version of what had happened to Giles and a very seriously cut-down version of the truth without any of the bits about Giles screaming or the bathroom.

He’d gone at lunchtime with Giles’ meds, and fortunately had looked through the door before he went in, because there had been a cop inside with Giles. It had taken Xander a moment to recognise him as Sergeant Bishop, and he had ducked down, out of sight, and had a little panic, and then headed out to get to the library window which Giles kept open during daylight. Rather to his surprise, Oz had already been there, backed up against the wall and listening; He had waved Xander in and put his mouth up close to Xander's ear.

“Giles knows I’m here, he saw me. He’s standing with his back to the window to talk. That cop... does he know you?”

Xander had nodded; he’d told the Scoobies about having to get Giles to bust him after they’d all been picked up. Not all of it; he’d just said that his family had been difficult and Giles had been kind to him. But they knew about Giles and the Social Education Library Group.

“He’s definitely suspicious about the relationship between you and Giles; Giles blanked why you had your arm in plaster, said he didn’t know, made a big deal about feeling bad that he hadn’t asked, he’d been too wrapped up in his own business. He’s been asking a load about Miss Calendar too, and he thinks Giles knows where Buffy is. I don’t think he really believes in the group. We need to show him somebody else knowing all about it. Not Willow, because somebody else injured is just too unlikely so it’ll have to be me. I’m gonna go and be all worried at him because I’ve only just heard he’s hurt.”

Xander, in a blaze of inspiration, had caught his arm and thrust bottles at him. “Meds. I told you and gave you his meds, and you’re gonna make sure he takes them because his Library Group is all socially aware and looking after him because his girlfriend got killed and he hasn’t got many friends here. Maybe in front of Bishop, he actually _will_ take the damn meds. One of each of those, two of the pink ones.”

Oz had nodded and run, and that was another weird or two, because when did Oz say that much all in one go, and when did Oz run? and Xander had leaned up against the wall, and listened.

“So you’re telling me that it’s a pure coincidence that your girlfriend is murdered by drug addicts and three months later you yourself are kidnapped and worked over by another set of drug addicts who leave a dead girl in your library?”

Giles had sounded like there wasn’t much left in the tank. “I, I have no idea. I have no explanation for Miss Calendar’s death at all; it was the police who told me that they suspected addicts. Certainly that was addicts last night. Is, is Sunnydale particularly, aah, afflicted with a drug problem?”

There was a silence; looking up, Xander had seen Giles at the window; his face hadn’t changed as he looked at Xander. Smart, Xander had thought; Bishop could probably see his reflection.

“More than we would like. And you say you don’t know where the Summers girl has gone?”

“Sergeant, I know only that she is not in school, and quite frankly if, as you say, she came in looking for me and instead found the body of this girl Kendra Young, and was then accused of being involved in her death, I am hardly surprised that she should have been frightened enough to run away. One day out of school hardly seems to me to warrant a major panic; I’m sure she’ll come back when she gets things in perspective. I think... yes, what is it? This is not a good time; can you come back later?”

Oz had dodged back round the corner, panting; he had grinned at Xander and given him a thumbs-up just as Xander had recognised Cordelia’s voice.

“No, Mr Giles, you need to take these now.”

“I, I, pardon?”

“Your meds. You need to take them now. You got any water in here?”

“Who are you?”

Oz and Xander had both winced.

“I’m Cordelia Chase. I’m part of Mr Giles’ library group. We’re looking after him, on account of nobody else seems to be bothering. Who are _you_?”

“Cordelia, this is, this is Sergeant Bishop. He’s just, he’s just...”

“He’s just hanging around the school asking silly questions instead of finding out who did this to you and arresting them. Drug crazed gangs attacking people _inside a school_ and he’s wasting time here? Is this good use of my tax dollars? I mean, not that I have tax dollars but, like, my dad does, and _is_ it? Do we _look_ like the sort of people who would attack a librarian? Mr Giles, you have to take two pink ones and one of each of the others, and you’re not to try to drive yourself home, I’m coming to do that.”

“I, I beg your pardon?”

Xander had felt the giggles rise at Giles’ bewildered tone, and had stuffed his hand in his mouth.

“Xander said you ought not to drive so I’ll drive you home and stay until Oz can get there.”

“Cordelia, it’s very kind of, of you, but there’s really no need...”

“It’s O.K., I know your car is a stick shift but I’m sure I can manage. No, _two_ of the pink ones.”

Xander had made a face at Oz and mouthed ‘Oh my God, he’s _taking_ them!”

“Xander? Would that be Xander Harris?” That had been Bishop again, sharper now.

“Yeah, did you hear what he did, Mr Giles? Oh, you must have done, he was going on and _on_ about being at the hospital with you. Did you ever hear such a dork? He’s only had that skateboard since about for _ever_ , and he falls off it and breaks his arm?”

Oz had made a face at Xander's offended expression this time.

“So I’ll be round at final bell, Mr Giles, to drive you home, and Oz and Xander will be over later.”

“Why will Oz and Xander be over later?” Sergeant Bishop had asked in a baffled voice; the boys outside had been able to _hear_ Cordy’s eyeroll.

“Well, duh! I can hardly stay the night with Mr Giles, can I? But he ought to have somebody with him, at least until he knows what he can do for himself and what needs help, so Oz and Xander will stay.” She sniffed, audibly. “I think it’s disgraceful that anybody could have, like, such a _nasty_ mind.”

Oz and Xander had exchanged uncomprehending glances.

“Nasty mind?” Sergeant Bishop had asked, weakly; Xander would have laid money on Cordy having rolled her eyes again.

“Poor Mr Giles thinks that if he has one of the boys over to help him, somebody will think there’s something, you know, _going on._ So likely, _not_. Like straight guy, girlfriend, even if dead girlfriend,” all the listeners both inside and out had winced, “and anyway, all beat up and sorry, and Xander's my boyfriend and Oz has this massive thing for Willow, everybody knows that, so the whole unsuitable friendships thing, _so_ not an issue, but...”

“But I work in a school, Cordelia, and as you say, nasty minds will have nasty ideas.”

“So Xander and Oz together, like chaperones at the prom. _So_ ridiculous.”

“Well, you know, Mr Giles, I do think I agree with the young lady, it’s perhaps a little over-cautious. I don’t know how they do things in England but over here we don’t necessarily assume the worst of people.”

“I’ll bear it in mind,” Giles had said dryly, and Xander had grinned because nobody could say anything against him staying with Giles if the police knew all about it ahead of time, and Cordy wasn’t _half_ as stupid as she made herself out to be and was much smarter than any of them when it came to social situations.

“Tell me, Miss, do you know Buffy Summers?”

“Well, duh, she’s part of the library group. She’s always whining to Mr Giles about something.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Gone off in a snit, I hear.”

“Cordelia, gone where?” Giles again. “Apparently she came here looking for me; do you know where she went after that?”

“Probably came to tell you how misunderstood she is, _again_. All I know is, she had a big fight with her boyfriend, and that’s the last anybody saw of her. Sorry.” That last had sounded insincere even by Cordy’s standard. “Anyway, gotta run, late for class, don't forget, Mr Giles, I’ll be round end of last period to drive you home.”

The door banged. There was a silence and Sergeant Bishop had said weakly, “She’s in your library group? I thought you said it was pupils with problems at home?”

“She overcompensates,” Giles had answered wearily. “I helped her a little when she was being bullied. School cliques, you know the sort of thing.”

“Is she likely to be right about the Summers girl? Boyfriend trouble?”

“I, I couldn’t say, but if that’s, that’s the school gossip, it’s as likely as anything, wouldn’t you say? They’re so, so capricious at this age, and the girls worse than the boys.”

“Got daughters myself.”

“Then you’ll know. The girls are much older much younger than the boys. The girls at seventeen are almost women; the boys are nowhere near men.”

“Tell me about it. My eldest, she’s fourteen, going on forty-one.” The voices had moved away; Oz and Xander had hesitated for another couple of minutes until Giles had made them jump by leaning out of the window and saying ominously, “If you give that girl my car keys, you’ll both be in detention until you draw your pensions,” and then vanishing back into the library.

Xander had laughed and laughed until his laughter had turned to an odd choking cough and Oz had drawn him to a bench and made him drink some water and said nothing, calmly, for quite a long time.

It hadn’t been Cordy who had driven Giles home; Cordy had spent ten minutes in the stacks with Xander while Giles cleared his desk, and Xander had felt much better for it, but when they had spotted Giles just sort of... stopped and looking off into space, Xander had kissed her again rather desperately, and she hadn’t tried to stop him as he went off towards Giles.

They’d gone home; Xander had driven and Giles had just looked out of the window, not even sucking his teeth when Xander got the gear change wrong and crunched the gearbox. He’d gone straight to his books, and Xander had... Xander didn’t altogether remember what he had done. He remembered persuading Giles to have soup and toast dipped in it to make it soft, and he remembered that Giles had shut himself in the bathroom for ages, and come out red-eyed and with much less by way of dressings and bandages, and that Xander had said as matter-of-factly as he could manage “Want me to do the ones on your back?” and had been permitted. After that it had been Xander's turn to shut himself in the bathroom; Giles had helped him to wrap his plaster in a plastic bag, and he had gone to the shower and had stood in it for ages, shaking, and wondering why Giles’ water was so cold, until he had noticed that his legs were lobster coloured and the mirror was all steamed up.

Usually when he stayed, Giles commented on how late it was and offered to run him home, and then asked if he would rather sleep – Giles usually said ‘kip’ – on the couch, and the fiction was maintained that Xander would of course prefer normally to sleep at home in his own bed. But this time, it had been Xander who pointed out that it was late, that they hadn’t slept the night before, (carefully) that they would neither of them be any use to... to anybody if they didn’t rest. It had been Xander who had announced that he needed his meds, and was it time for Giles to take his too? and who fetched water and undid bottles. Giles had muttered something, and started for the stairs; a minute later Xander had followed him, and wordlessly unbuttoned his cuffs and unfastened his shoe laces while Giles sat on the edge of the bed, and then gone away again, still without comment.

Now, it was Xander, stretched along Giles’ couch in the dark, wondering what was so damn bad about an apocalypse anyway, and trying to control his breathing because his chest was tightening up and he wanted so badly to hang onto somebody and hear that everything was going to be all right and who the hell was he trying to kid? The only person who had _ever_ told him that and meant it was Giles – and it wasn’t hard to see that Giles was desperately afraid that nothing was ever going to be all right again.

He knew he had really lost it when he pulled Giles’ jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped the pillow in it, because the collar smelled of Giles’ cologne and the roughness against his cheek felt like a hiding place.


	2. The Trouble With Something Which Can’t Possibly Get Any Worse Is the Ease With Which It Gets Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giles needs a Wingman.

He hadn’t been sleeping well. Nobody could sleep well on that couch, even under normal circumstances and these were not normal circumstances. His arm still hurt, and his head hurt a bit too, which might have been because he thought he had been crying in his sleep. Giles was right, damp tweed did smell of wet dog, and it felt like he had a fine weave pattern embossed on his cheek. So he wasn’t that surprised that he had woken up again, just pleased to find that it was late enough that he could take something more for the pain in his arm. He padded through to the kitchen for water, and gulped down a pill, and Giles said something and made him jump.

He hadn’t realised Giles was awake as well, but he probably needed the big pain relieving pill too, and he hadn’t taken a glass of water upstairs with him when he had gone to bed, so Xander rinsed out the glass and refilled it and went up the stairs to ask what Giles had said.

“I don’t know what to do now.”

That was _so_ not something Xander wanted to hear from the Big Guy.

“You’ll think of something,” he said awkwardly, stopping a couple of steps from the top. “And maybe the middle of the night isn’t the best time to try?”

“Where has she _gone_?” That was desperate and Xander shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

“I dunno, Giles.”

“Why would she... does she think I wouldn’t _understand_?”

“I think she thinks nobody would understand. Doesn’t... Isn’t it just something about bad love affairs, everybody always thinks nobody understands?”

“I, I have tried, I’ve tried to persuade her that she can trust me.”

“She does trust you!”

“Not enough to confide in me. Not... not about Angelus. Angel. Not enough to tell me how she feels.”

“Giles, I don’t think she knows. I think she’s way too confused and unhappy to... She ought to have done. You’re her Watcher, she ought to talk to you.”

“I’m no sort of Watcher if she doesn’t trust me. I’m no sort of Watcher at all, really.”

There was a pause, while Xander fidgeted a little and wondered how to open a discussion on the subject of meds and ideally, how to close a really uncomfortable one on the fitness of Giles to be a Watcher.

“They were right.”

“Um, who?”

“The Council. They were right, I should never have been a Watcher, I’m not, I’m not suitable. Not competent. All that with, with, all that I did before, I shouldn’t, I, I, they should never have taken me back.”

“Oh, that’s bad talk, Giles. Buffy’s just, she’s just... I don’t think she’d have behaved any differently with a different Watcher.”

“It’s wrong, leaving the fight to children.”

“Yeah, well, I might be inclined to agree with you on that one. You want to put up a petition about it, I’ll sign.”

“I don’t know what to do with them.”

“Sorry, with what? Who?”

“Willow, she’s got such potential. _Such_ potential.”

“You’re not the first to say that. Every careers day, they queue up for Willow. Now for me, the queue is to sign up for somebody else to take me, but there you are.”

“She ought to have some proper training, but I don’t know what to do about it... and I’m supposed to be looking after the Slayer, not a witch.”

“Um...”

“And Oz... I like Oz.”

“Everybody likes Oz. Don’t necessarily understand Oz, but everybody likes Oz.”

“But he ought to have some help. He ought to have somewhere to go, _someone_ to go to, because it, it can’t be easy, and I’ll help him all I can, but I, I have no experience, what can I do? What can I tell him?”

“Hey, he said you explained all the moon thing.” Xander slid down until he was sitting on the floor, setting the glass of water beside him. If Giles wanted to talk rather than to take his meds, Xander would let him talk. “And you let him stay in the book cage. You’re doing more than anybody else is doing, and I know Oz appreciates it.”

“And then there’s Xander.”

“Yeah... wait, what?”

“He’s... he’s almost... of all of them, he’s the one...”

“Whoa. What? Like... what?”

“What the hell am I doing for Xander?”

Light dawned. Giles wasn’t absolutely as awake as he might be and whoever he was talking to, it wasn’t Xander.

“That boy...”

Listening to him when he didn’t know he was talking was a bit... it felt a bit not-quite-polite. Intrusive. A bit like reading his diary. Xander... ought to either wake him up or go away. Not wake him up: Giles needed to sleep, and even if he was chatty in his sleep, it had to be better for him than being awake. No. Not wake him up.

And who was Xander trying to kid: he wasn’t going anywhere, not with Giles talking to whoever it was about him. Yeah, eavesdropping, very bad, and probably Giles hated him and would say so and Xander would crawl back down the stairs and cry into the tweed some more and go back to hoping for the apocalypse. Meanwhile he was just sitting on the stairs and pretending he wasn’t.

“I don’t know what to do with him.”

_Join the club, Giles. Big club. Nobody knows what to do with me._

“He exasperates me so much.”

 _Yeah. Figures. Crawl down the stairs time_.

“He’s got so much going for him, and he doesn’t seem to know it.”

_Wait, what?_

“He’s all heart, and he’s so desperate to please, and everybody seems to tell him that he’ll never amount to anything and the result is that he doesn’t even try. If he gave half the attention to his homework as he gives to coming up with reasons why he hasn’t done it...”

_Yeah, but I can’t do it, Giles, I don’t know how._

“He’s a perfectly competent researcher; he drives me bloody _spare_ with his cans of drink and his constant junk food, but he gets through the stuff.”

_Don’t know what I’m reading, though. Not like you._

“If he would stop cracking those _bloody_ infuriating jokes, stop trying to... stop _trying_ so hard!”

_You’re always telling me I don’t try. And what were you just saying about my homework?_

“I don’t know how to deal with him, and I cock it up so badly!”

_I knew you regretted it._

“Do you remember when I fell off the hayloft? You were so angry.”

_Not me, Giles. Who are you talking to?_

“I sprained my ankle and you didn’t speak all the way to the hospital, and then you ticked me off all the way home from X-ray, I don’t think you even drew breath, and you sent me to bed in disgrace, and I wasn’t allowed near the horses for a week. I think I sulked for all of it; it didn’t occur to me that I couldn’t have ridden with a sprained ankle anyway, or that it meant you had to exercise Roscoe as well as Marcus.”

_Is that your dad?_

“I understand it now. I understand why you were so angry. Xander does that to me.”

_Yeah. I make you mad._

“You must have been scared to death; that hayloft was twenty feet if it was an inch and it was only by the grace of God that I went down into the loose hay and not onto the baler.”

_Way to go, Giles! How come you never tell us these stories until they’re dragged out of you with forceps?_

“I didn’t understand that – I didn’t realise that you were silent on the way to the hospital because if you’d said anything at all you’d have started with ‘what the hell were you _thinking_?’ and never been able to stop, and because you were picturing all the ways in which it might have been something much worse than a suspected broken ankle. Well, I understood it in my head, I suppose, but I didn’t understand it in my gut until that damn boy did his level best to get himself killed by a demon.”

 _And you just had to bring that up, didn’t you? God, Giles, don’t tell your dad about that, it makes me cringe enough just knowing that_ you _know!_ _Oh yeah, he’s not really here, I forgot. Even so, Giles, don’t tell him about it because it’s just soooo embarrassing._

“And I cocked it up so badly.”

_No, that was me._

“I can’t tell you how badly. I, I...” the voice tailed away in the dark and Xander breathed more freely, but Giles dragged in two long breaths as if, as if he was having to get his courage up. “I hit him.”

_What? No! That’s not how it went!_

“It wasn’t just, it wasn’t just that he’d... He nearly got my Slayer killed.” Another silence. “No. No, he didn’t. He got her hurt. And he got me hurt. But the only one who was in danger of being _killed_ was Xander himself, and I handled it so badly. I hit him. I walloped the arse off him. I didn’t do him any lasting harm but... not physically at least, but God alone knows what harm I’ve really done him. He needed so badly to be forgiven and I didn’t know how to do it. I was so _angry_.” Two more long breaths. “I was so scared. _He_ was so scared. He was scared of me when I was angry and then he was scared that I would kick him out, and then... he must have been scared about how much I was going to hurt him. He was brave. He _is_ brave. I manage him so badly. I couldn’t bear him to be afraid of me. It was all I could think of to get him quickly through to the point where I could say it was over. I was never scared of you when you were angry. I hated it, but I was never afraid of you. I manage them all so badly. So badly. You should never have persuaded me back to the Council. I’m not fit to have a Slayer; I can’t manage her either. She’s gone. I’ve lost her. She... Angel... Angelus... He hurt me. Oh God, he hurt me so much, and I betrayed her, I told him what he needed to know, not because he hurt me, I’m not, I’m not that much of a coward, but I’m a fool, he deceived me and I should have known because she’s dead, she’s dead and gone and I so wanted her not to be so I believed, and I betrayed Buffy and now she’s gone, and...”

There was a movement from the bed, just a small one, and it was so dark that Xander couldn’t possibly have seen enough to read it as desperation.

“I betrayed her and he hurt me, and oh God, I deserved it. I deserved it all. He hurt me so much, Dad, I’m sorry, but I deserved it, I know I did.” And then even more faintly, a whimper, “Mum?”

Oh no. No. _Big_ no. Eavesdropping on what Giles thought about Xander was one thing (and a big thing needing a list of its own, not the Giles not think at all ever list but a Xander think about it later list), but this was way too much. This was past reading Giles’ diary and onto spying on Giles in the shower territory and Xander was _so_ not doing it. Whatever Giles was dreaming about, he needed not to be, because... because Giles was carrying enough on account of Buffy not having the sense that God gave geese and not being able to resist a handsome man in a leather jacket _and not actually trying very hard and leaving everybody else to pick up after her as usual_ and Giles didn’t need to be getting upset about a conversation with somebody who didn’t seem to be doing anything very much to tell him that it wasn’t all his fault and if Xander ever met Mr Giles Senior he’d have a bit to say about that because couldn’t he _see_ that Giles had done his best and his best had been bloody good, and nobody deserved what Angelus did, specially, _specially_ not Giles, and even Xander could see how circular that was that Angelus hurt Giles to make him talk and then Giles thought he deserved to be hurt because he _had_ talked, and why wasn’t Mr Giles helping instead of just standing there criticising... Oh. Yeah, because he wasn’t actually there and probably wouldn’t think any of that stuff anyway, that was just Giles letting his overactive conscience run wild. Sorry, Mr Giles, benefit of the doubt, this time at least.

But Giles wanting his mom because somebody had hurt him... Xander ought _not_ to be hearing that. That was _way_ private.

“Giles?” Not loud, but firm, and he got to his feet again and picked up the glass of water. “Giles?”

“WHAT? WHO’S THERE?”

“Hey, Big Guy, it’s only me, it’s Xander.”

“Xander? Xander! Is, is something wrong? Was it the phone?” Giles was scrabbling at the light beside him, and then squinting at Xander in the glare.

“Was it... no, nothing, but I woke up needing the happy pills, and then I heard you; you sounded awfully restless, you were thrashing about a bit, so I thought you could probably do with a pill or two of your own.” He set the glass down and reached for the bottles beside Giles’ bed.

“No! No, I mustn’t. Oh God, I was asleep. I mustn’t sleep.”

“You... what?”

“No. She might call, and I can’t miss it. I can’t. I mustn’t. I’ve let her down once already, so badly, I mustn’t again. If she calls... I have to be ready when she calls. No pills. I can’t afford to sleep.”

“Giles, you don’t sleep, you’ll fall off the branch. No good to anybody if you don’t sleep. She’s not gonna call this time of night.”

“She, she might. She’s in trouble, I know she is and when she calls I’ve got to be ready.”

Xander set the glass down and stared at Giles. “Um, not making a load of sense here, Big... Giles? You feeling all right?”

“I, I, what?”

“Not looking too good here. Not that warm up here, but you’re sweating up some.” He reached for Giles’ forehead, ignoring Giles’ retreat across the bed. “’Kay, you’re a bit hot. In fact you’re way too hot. You keep a thermometer in your bathroom cabinet, Giles?”

“Don’t, don’t be ridiculous, Xander, I’m perfectly... don’t try to distract me. I might, I might be running a slight temperature but I’m quite capable of, of... I need to stay awake for when Buffy calls.”

Xander took his hand away. “Giles, the phone is right beside your bed. You’ll wake if it rings, ‘cos I know you too well to believe that you took even one of those sleeping pills they gave you. But you need to take the others, the antibiotics and the painkillers. There’s a phone downstairs too; even if you didn’t wake, I would.”

“No. She might call, I need to be ready. I need to be awake.” He was putting on the mulish, stubborn look Xander had seen way too many times; Xander, like the nurse at the hospital, knew a lost cause and shifted his ground accordingly. Giles had taught him that much.

“What about if you take your pills and go back to sleep, and I’ll stay up? I can sleep tomorrow, weekend, no school, but you need to rest now.”

“ _No!_ I’m her Watcher, I must watch! It’s my duty to keep her safe.”

“Not denying it, just working out the best way to do it. She’s much more likely to call in the daytime, so more sense for you to be awake then. I can sit up now and you can have your meds and catch some more zees, and then you’ll be fresh for...” he faltered, and then recovered, “for whatever we have to do tomorrow.”

He saw Giles waver. “You... you would do that?”

“Sure, if that’s what we need to do.”

“But I think I, I could just nap, I don’t need to take...”

“No, that’s not the deal, Giles. The deal is, I stay up, I listen for... for the phone, you take your meds and go to sleep.”

“But I really...”

O.K., it was going to need a low blow, and now he knew where the low blow would strike hardest. “You can trust me. If you tell me that I need to stay up to listen for the phone, you know,” and oh God, he didn’t want to say this, because it was blackmail and he had no right to know how Giles felt about it, and because it reminded him of saying it before and that made him go hot and cold all over, “you know that I won’t put Buffy in danger through disobedience.”

Ouch. He saw it hit, and Giles’ unswollen eye narrow, and the look of guilt cross his face, and Xander looked away and started shaking pills out into his hand. “You take these and go to sleep. I’ll sit up here if you like, rather than downstairs.” God only knew what difference that would make, but Giles picked up the glass and held out his hand for the meds and Xander watched them go in, and took the glass back and settled himself with a pillow at his back.

“You can, you can leave that light on if you want.”

He did want; if he turned the lamp off, promise or no promise he’d be asleep in five. He turned it, so that the light was away from Giles face, and Giles eased himself awkwardly back down the bed. And how weird was it, that he was sitting on Giles’ bed, and Giles was settling to sleep beside him? Got weirder because Giles sighed and shut his eyes, but Xander could see that he wasn’t asleep; he was tense. He kept almost going to sleep, Xander thought, and then it was like something woke him with a jerk, and presently he turned painfully onto his side and one hand crept a little towards Xander... and Xander shifted his weight just a fraction so that his leg came to rest against Giles’ fingers. Just... Just saying ‘I’m here, it’s O.K.’

He managed half an hour before he caught his head drooping, but he’d _promised_ – and Giles actually was asleep. He listed all the _Star Trek_ episodes he could remember, and he tried to think of a cartoon character’s name for every letter of the alphabet, and eventually he reached to the little pile of books beside the bed, because otherwise he was going to end up thinking about the not-thinky things, or the not-thinky- _now_ things, and either of those would definitely be of the bad. What did Giles read in bed?

Something in German, and something in a language which looked to be read vertically, and... what was this?

_Between the silver ribbon of morning and the green glittering ribbon of sea, the boat touched Harwich and let loose a swarm of folk like flies, among whom the man we must follow was by no means conspicuous – nor wished to be. There was nothing notable about him, except a slight contrast between the holiday gaiety of his clothes and the official gravity of his face. His clothes included a slight, pale grey jacket, a white waistcoat, and a silver straw hat with a grey-blue ribbon. His lean face was dark by contrast, and ended in a curt black beard that looked Spanish and suggested an Elizabethan ruff. He was smoking a cigarette with the seriousness of an idler. There was nothing about him to indicate the fact that the grey jacket covered a loaded revolver, that the white waistcoat covered a police card, or that the straw hat covered one of the most powerful intellects in Europe. For this was Valentin himself, the head of the Paris police and the most famous investigator of the world; and he was coming from Brussels to London to make the greatest arrest of the century._

O.K. He didn’t know what it was, but this was something Giles read, and he had managed a paragraph and recognised all the words. He’d see if that would keep him awake.

He managed all the way to dawn on it. One or two of the stories he knew: the one about the postman seemed familiar and the creepy one about the body with the wrong head as well. He thought maybe he had seen that on a repeat of _Mystery!_ Some of the others were weird. The English had special flatware to eat _fish_ with? But generally, he could – he could read something which Giles read, presumably for pleasure, and he could enjoy it too. That felt odd.

Giles roused not long after. He woke suddenly, one eye wide open and the other straining to follow, and his whole body froze when he saw Xander.

“What... hell.”

Xander wanted to say something ordinary but all he could think of was “She didn’t ring,” and somehow that didn’t feel like a good place to start.

“God. Did you... Have you been awake all night?”

“Well, not _all_ night. But since... yes.”

Giles’ good eye flickered to the phone; he had to say it, then. “She didn’t call.”

“No, of course she bloody didn’t. Completely pointless, you sitting up waiting for her. _Completely_ pointless.”

Well, yes, Xander had known that all along, but it still wasn’t nice to be reminded of it.

“Absolute waste of time and energy. Energy we haven’t got to spare. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.”

Yeah, well, thank you but he hadn’t _had_ a better idea of how to keep Giles from sitting up, other than to sit up himself, and while he hadn’t exactly expected thanks for it, he hadn’t expected abuse either. He got up, rather abruptly.

“If you’re awake now, I’ll go and – and start some coffee. I need one of my painkillers too.” He was going to get down the stairs and out of Giles’ sight because he was either going to lose it and swear and scream at Giles, or burst into tears, and at the moment the second seemed more likely than the first. He was so _tired_ , and his arm hurt and his head hurt, and he _knew_ that Giles was hurting and upset too, but even so, he just, he couldn’t take any _more_ of being not what Giles wanted. 

Two stairs down and “Xander!”

He stopped. Took a breath to make sure he could control his voice. “Yes?”

“Xander, come here?”

No. Don’t want to. Don’t _want_ to feel like a spare part any more. “I’m just going to get the coffee on. Do you want tea instead?” It sounded a bit flat but no more than tired.

“Please, Xander? Come back here? Please?” It sounded tentative and rather unhappy. Giles probably needed him to... to unfasten something, or pass him something. He wasn’t good for anything else. But he didn’t need to be told so... Only he was doing whatever needed to be done. That was what he had identified as how he could help. He set his jaw and turned. If Giles needed something...

Giles was looking at him, and he looked as unhappy as Xander felt. “Come here.” He tapped the bed beside him; Xander approached but he didn’t sit and he kept his face blank. Giles sighed.

“I’m an ungrateful bastard. _Please_ will you stop looming over me, and sit down and... Xander, I, I didn’t mean you were stupid, I meant I was. God alone knows what I was thinking last night; you, you were quite right, with two of us in the house, there wasn’t any need for anybody to sit up, one of us would have heard the phone. I don’t know why I got such a bee in my bonnet about it. Well, except that I think I was probably feverish and you, you were right about that too.  I think it was pointless as far as Buffy was concerned for you to have sat up all night, but if you hadn’t done it I wouldn’t have slept at all, and it was kind of you, and generous, and absolutely the right thing to do. And now you’ve been on the go for forty-eight hours non-stop and you must feel like shit. _Please_ come and sit down: I need to talk to you.”

Xander sat, biting the inside of his lip. Giles set his hand over Xander's.

“Thank you. I ought to say that first. I don’t think I said it at all yesterday. Thank you for coming for me, and for, for taking care of me, and, and, and for all of it. If you hadn’t been there... well, if I hadn’t died in the house, I don’t know how I would have managed the hospital or school, or anything. You were, were... And all I’ve done in return is snap at you. Xander, I, I need you to do something more for me. I need you to try to remember that when I bark at you, it’s usually because I’m angry with myself, not with you. I need you to hold off before you let me upset you. Bite back. Or ignore me, I don’t care which. Tell yourself that Giles never had any manners and he isn’t improving now, if you like, or challenge me, or... Just don’t take it and be hurt by it, because that’s not, not what I mean to do.”

Oh God, Xander _was_ going to cry again.

“Listen, Xander. I don’t know what to do next. I don’t _know_. I don’t know where Buffy is, or even if she’s still alive... I, I, Joyce said they’d had a fight and she’d left a note but we don’t know what happened after that so we don’t know if she’s really run away or if something else... I don’t know what will happen now, now that Kendra’s dead, poor child. I don’t know if her, her death will trigger another Slayer, or if, if it will revert to being just Buffy, or what. If there’s another Slayer, I don’t know if there’s another Watcher. I think if Acathla is dormant, Angel must be dead, but I don’t know about Drusilla. I don’t know if the police are going to leave me alone. I can’t see out of one eye; I’ve got pins in my fingers; my shoulder hurts like hell and isn’t strong enough for me to do anything. I can’t dress myself, or drive, or lift anything or fight. Everything hurts, Xander, and my temper hurts worst of all, and I’m so frightened I can hardly stand it. I don’t know what to do and I’m going to have to work it out and start doing it. _I don’t know what to do_ and I’m not going to be able to do it, I’m not even going to have the courage to _think_ about it unless I’ve got a wingman I can trust absolutely. I’m hoping that’s you.”

Xander didn’t even dare open his eyes, and his voice was choked. “You know I’ve got your back, Giles.”

And Giles leaned over, and rested his forehead against Xander's shoulder, and whispered, “Then we’ll be all right,” and Xander turned his face into Giles’ hair and held his breath because he was _not_ going to cry. 

A minute later Giles drew back slightly and said, a little more strongly, “Do you remember telling Buffy in the library that you didn’t know what you were doing there with us?”

Hell and damnation, could Buffy not keep her mouth shut about _anything?_ Did she _have_ to tell Giles that?

“We know now. _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?_ The Slayer has a Watcher; the Watcher hasn’t traditionally had any backup at all. But I do. I have you.”

 


	3. After the Apocalypse of Tweed Comes the Apocalypse of Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes there are no right answers.

They had simply sat there for another minute and then Giles, who seemed to be nearly as good at denial as Xander when it came to anything emotional, and better than Xander at simply moving past it, pulled away and said hopefully, “You mentioned coffee.”

“Yeah. Coffee. And breakfast.”

“I need another shower; I must have been sweating like a horse last night, I’m rank.”

“And then...?”

Giles thought. “I’m trying to sit on the inclination to run round and round in tiny circles barking and panicking. O.K. Coffee, breakfast – I think could actually eat something as long as it was soft. How do you feel about omelettes? There should be a bit of ham in the fridge and some cheese.”

“I’m for them.” 

“Food first. Then cleanliness. Showers. And, and then I think you help me to change the sheets on this bed, and then you get into it and go to sleep, and I start making some phone calls and planning the research.”

“I could...”

“You could go to sleep. You’ve done your bit. You told me, quite rightly, that I wasn’t going to achieve anything if I didn’t sleep. Your turn. You get to do things again later.”

Xander opened his mouth to argue and was overcome by a jaw-breaking yawn. Giles laughed at him.

“Yeah. O.K.”

“In that case... I think I’ve set. Can you get me vertical? I can manage the stairs if you don’t rush me, and you could start the coffee.”

“And line up your pills for you. You gonna take your meds without arguing? And I’ll give you a clue: the answer I’m looking for here is ‘Yes, Xander’.”

“I, I don’t know that I need...”

“Giles, I’m way too tired to argue about it. You take your meds, or when Willow and Oz come round, I tell her you haven’t taken them.”

Giles stared. “Where did you learn to be such a dirty fighter?”

“You taught me everything I know. Meds?”

“Yes, Xander.”

Xander yawned again. “Can we start on this plan? It’s a really good plan, Giles, I like it a lot. Specially the bit where I get to go to sleep.”

“Food first.”

Getting Giles upright wasn’t pleasurable for either of them, but they achieved it, and Giles managed the stairs with only an average amount of profanity, or at least that was what Xander assumed it to be: Giles had shifted out of English into something Xander didn’t recognise when he realised Xander was listening. Even so, Xander had made careful note of two unfamiliar words to be looked up later. The programme for the morning was carried through, all the way to Xander falling into Giles’ bed, and closing his eyes blissfully. He was going to sleep _at least_ until lunchtime and quite possibly longer. He liked this bed. He liked it a lot. It was big and comfortable and covered in clean sheets which smelled good, and he was going to be asleep in ten seconds and when he woke up he would feel a lot less like he had been stomped on all over, which he did at present, largely, he thought, on account of him having been stomped on all over.

Being stomped on all over. Again. No, no, no, that wasn’t fair. He shouldn’t have to fight when he was this tired. He was just too tired to get the stake up fast enough and the monster with the eyes and the teeth was coming and it had Giles, Giles was shouting something and it was laughing and coming in with the teeth, and Xander couldn’t get there in time, he was shooting upright, gasping and...

Oh. No. Not real. A couple of deep breaths and he turned over and settled down again. There. That was better. He just needed to get himself calmed down. And his arm ached a little, but he’d had a pill and that would pass in a minute or two. Those were _good_ pills. He’d need to keep an eye on Giles though; he wasn’t stupid enough to see Giles’ capitulation as more than a one-time thing. Heaven only knew why the man was so stubborn about meds; they’d given him the things at the hospital that he _needed_ and why on earth he wouldn’t just take them... Xander had collected them for him, and carried them, packs and foil strips and little paper bags, and when he turned round, Giles had vanished again. Where had they taken him this time? Somebody was going round the corner; that must be Giles, ahead of him. He just needed to hurry a little only Giles was just too far ahead, he couldn’t keep up; why would Giles not wait for him? He’d got all Giles’ meds, and Giles was going to need them, so why was Giles going so fast and leaving Xander behind? He started to run, and tripped over his own feet, clumsy, _clumsy_ , no wonder Giles didn’t want to be bothered waiting for him, and he fell, hard, onto white tiles and soft cotton...

Whoa. That was... no, that was just anxiety dreams. He knew about those, his brain trying to make sense of whatever had happened to him, and frankly, brain, not worth the effort. It had not been a good couple of days, it simply _didn’t_ make sense, nothing made sense and Xander's brain would be well advised to book some down time and leave somebody else to sort everything for a bit. He knew what his job was: he was Giles’ wingman. Sure, he had to keep up, but Giles was in charge, he was the Number One Guy, and Xander's job was to follow him. That’s what he would do. Where Giles went, there was Xander trotting along behind. When Giles fought, Xander would fight. Xander had his back. His job was to keep an eye out for the bad guys sneaking up on Giles. To get Giles out of the places where it all started to go wrong, where there was a chair and a rope and blood and the smell of smoke and of burnt flesh, only he had failed, he’d fallen too far behind, Giles had been counting on him and he had let him down, and now that he’d caught up, the floor was slippery with blood, and the rope was tight, and Giles’ head had fallen down against his chest and Xander couldn’t rouse him. There was blood all over his face and his eyes weren’t quite shut but they were dull, and when Xander touched him he was cold, and clammy, and when Xander slid a hand under his jaw, his head flopped and there was no pulse and...

Xander was half way down the stairs before his mind caught up; Giles, startled, was looking up at him. There were books on the floor and on the couch; Giles for once wasn’t working at the desk.

“Xander?”

“I... Oh God.”

“What’s the matter?” Giles was on his feet, scowling with pain but limping towards Xander, who suddenly realised that he was standing there in just his shorts and blushed hotly.

“Oh... Oh. Fuck. Sorry, Giles. I’m O.K. I’m... I’m O.K.”

“But what... Oh. Bad dreams?”

“I... Yeah. Sorry. Woke up confused. I’m... I’ll...”

“What are you going to do, go back to bed, or come down and sleep on the couch?” Actually, that didn’t sound like a judgment. Xander hesitated; Giles looked away and his jaw worked for a moment. “After Jenny... after Miss Calendar... I slept on the couch for a week. Bad dreams.”

Yeah. Giles would know about bad dreams. And worse than dreams because Angelus had left Miss Calendar upstairs for Giles, left her in that big bed. Xander came down another two stairs.

“Bring the quilt down, Xander, you won’t be warm enough without it.” Giles was clearing the couch methodically, stacking books, making space, not thinking that Xander was weak. Understanding. Giles did understand, Xander knew that. He understood a hell of a lot more than Buffy ever gave him credit for.

He tucked himself down on the couch, under the covers from Giles’ bed, and closed his eyes again. If he listened, he could hear Giles breathing, hear the whisper of turning pages and the scratch of Giles’ pen on the notepad. He could hear Giles...

“I dreamed you were dead.”

“Not yet.”

“I kept... I kept losing you.”

There was a silence and then “Can you move this chair for me? I, I, it hurts when I push.”

He opened his eyes and disentangled himself from the bedding. “Where do you want it?”

“There. Yes. Thank you. Lie down; go to sleep now.”

The chair was right up against the couch; Xander closed his eyes again. Giles was there, close by. Close was good; last night he had stayed close and Giles had rested his fingertips against Xander's thigh. That was... that was why Giles understood. He fidgeted a little, and felt a hand, braced with metalwork, fall on his shoulder, and stay.

“Sleep, Xander.”

He slept.

He woke up feeling like death in a bucket. Something really horrible had taken up lodging at the back of his mouth; all his joints ached; he’d had his good arm underneath him and his hand had gone to sleep and when he moved it, the blood returning to his fingers stung. His bad arm ached dully. His body had woken up but his brain hadn’t, and he needed to sleep for about another week. Something was hanging over him; he blinked half a dozen times before it came into focus as Willow.

“Xan? Giles says you need to wake up.”

“Huh? Wha’? ’m awake. ’s Giles need somethin’?” He scrabbled round and sat up. “Wha’s he want? ’m up.”

He could hear the amusement in Giles’ voice, overlaying the strain. The strain, he thought rather vaguely, would probably last a while yet. “It’s all right, Xander: Willow and Oz have been looking after me. Oz says dinner in fifteen minutes; I thought you might like to get dressed and wash your face.”

“Dinner?”

“Pasta,” said Oz’s voice from somewhere out of sight. “All I know how to cook. And we brought ice cream.”

“Nice soft foods,” added Giles, dryly.

“Cool.” He struggled to his feet, still enveloped in bedding. Somebody had been upstairs; his clothes were neatly piled on the couch. “Did... has... what’s happened?”

There was an exchange of glances, he was awake enough to see that. “Nothing yet,” said Willow with rather forced cheerfulness. “Giles says we’re going to make plans after dinner.”

“Uhuh. Giles, did you take...”

“Yes, mum, I took all my medicine. And Oz and Willow redid my bandages. Go on, Xander, you’re not eating dinner in just your underwear in my house, apocalypse or no apocalypse.”

And oh God, he could have cried _again_ at that, at Giles being dry and English and insisting on proper standards, because it was so ordinary, so normal, so much what Giles just _did._

They ate, and Giles refused to allow serious conversation over dinner; he and Oz had a languid conversation about the relative merits of two guitarists Xander had never heard of. Then Xander and Oz cleared the table and washed the dishes, and Xander showed off his new tea-making skills, and Giles smiled faintly and was pleased to approve. Eventually, though, they had to Talk About Things.

“I’ve phoned everybody round here who might know; I’m not getting any word of Buffy. I, I can make some calls farther afield tomorrow, and Willow, when, when you’re feeling better, there’s a tracing spell. It’s not an easy one, so I don’t want you trying it until, until you do feel better. I, I’m sure you’ll try to tell me that you’re fine, but please don’t because the spell won’t work if you aren’t strong enough to hold it, it will just exhaust you more and leave you not fit to try again.”

Willow wrinkled her nose unhappily. “Yeah. O.K.”

Giles sighed. “I just don’t, don’t think we can patrol for a day or two. Not with Oz the only one fit to fight and nobody to back him up. Once we’re mobile again, we’ll, we’ll have to try.” He suddenly looked doubtful. “Assuming, ah, you’re all willing.”

They exchanged glances. “Not yet, then but yes,” said Oz calmly.

Giles looked at his hands. “I, my instinct is to go searching for Buffy tomorrow, but, but I think it’s, I think I mustn’t. I think I have to finish the term at school, and so must you all. It’s only a week, and, and it will raise so many questions if we aren’t there, that, that...”

“But...” from Willow – but Xander was watching Giles’ face, and he had a vague notion of what this was costing him.

“Back to school for a week. Yeah. ’Cause let’s face it, Giles, you’ll be a week before you’re fit to do anything serious anyway, and for all we know, if Buffy’s just had a, a, she might well be back by then anyway.”

“She might,” he agreed tightly. “And, and... I’m sorry, Xander but while you were asleep... I took some decisions that affect you.”

“Me?”

“You, you said you were willing to help me, and to be frank, if you don’t, I, I don’t know how I’m going to manage. So I, I rang your father.”

“You called my _dad_? What for?”

“Because I really need you to be here.”

“Yeah, well, was intending to be here anyway. Not like anybody would notice if I wasn’t.”

“Weren’t, not wasn’t... I beg your pardon, that’s irrelevant. I thought they might notice if you were gone a full week, or even longer. So I called, and explained that I’d, I’d been mugged and I’d got broken bones and needed help at home. I, ah, I rather implied that Sergeant Bishop had suggested that I ask one of my students for help. Your father has agreed that you can stay here until I don’t need you. I just... I hope you don’t mind, but particularly while I’m not fit to drive...”

Xander was leaning forward, his head hidden in his hands. “What’s the deal?”

“I, I beg your pardon?”

“Giles, my dad wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire, not unless there was something in it for him. He wouldn’t care if I wasn’t at home unless he thought that somebody else wanted me to be somewhere else. And then he’d want something for it.”

“Ah. Well. Yes. There was a, a, a quid pro quo. He did rather press me to pay for your time.”

“ _Giles!_ You knew perfectly well that I’d stay, I’d sort something so he didn’t know! What did you do that for? Why did you think you needed to pay him?”

“Ah. Well. Yes. I, ah, I think that yes, he assumed like you that I meant to pay him. I was thinking more along the lines of paying you. After all, you’re the one who will have to do the work.”

“No. You know I’ll stay and you know I’ll do whatever needs doing. No paying.”

“Well, you see, he was very definite that if money didn’t change hands, he would stop you staying, so I did rather commit myself. I feel I’ve given my word. So if I don’t pay you, it’ll have to be him, and I would really prefer not to pay him.”

Xander sighed. “He’ll still get it.”

“Not if it’s already spent. Clothes. Comics. Junk food and sweets – I mean candy.”

Xander looked sideways at Giles. “You need another of the big calming pills?”

Giles sighed in his turn. “Would he believe that if I gave you the money, you would instantly blow it on frivolities?”

“Sure.”

“Would he shout at you any more for that than for refusing to hand it over?”

“Probably not.”

“Will you accept me as co-signatory on your bank account that we aren’t going to mention to him that you’ve got, until you achieve your majority? Or you could have Oz, couldn’t you, he’s of age.”

Oz sniggered. “Love the way you think round corners, Giles.”

“Can we get on now?”

 But there had been horribly little getting on to be got. The plain fact was that without Buffy they could do very little, and they couldn’t find her. Over the week, Xander watched Giles’ health improve, but if his outlook didn’t deteriorate by the day, Xander reckoned it was down to sheer strength of will. They had some leads, but they were going to have to go and look – to drive to this city or that and ask questions, and that couldn’t be done until term had finished.

It was a hard week and it was filled with things that they were not ever going to mention again. Not ever, never. They weren’t going to mention the nightmares; Xander's passed fairly quickly, but Giles was still waking twice at least most nights. They weren’t – ever, _ever_ – going to mention the night that he didn’t wake, the night that Xander had to wake him, the night he had been in such distress that he had actually told Xander, before he quite realised who Xander was, what Angelus had done. Xander, pretty much, had already known: he had dressed the injuries, he couldn’t not know how they had been inflicted – but hearing it spelled out, hour by hour, hurt by hurt, betrayal by betrayal, Angelus and the Jenny Calendar which had been Drusilla – hearing it had tested him, and only Giles’ need for release had allowed him to listen. Giles had made a noise like a wounded animal and Xander had simply held on, Giles’ face against his neck, and tried hard to remember that this was a charge to be levelled against Angelus, and not against Buffy. They were never going to talk about the fact that they had cried together, Giles for pain and despair, and Xander for sudden adult understanding, until they had both slept, still holding on, and woken embarrassed and uncomfortable. That was not to be mentioned again. It hadn’t happened. 

On Thursday night, they put together an itinerary; Giles sat for a minute looking at it. “Are you, are you really willing to come with me? This is going to be a hell of a long way if we have to, to cover it all.”

“Already had this conversation. Yes, I’m coming. I know you think you can drive again but you can’t drive that sort of distance on your own.”

Giles was giving him a look he couldn’t quite read. “You’re very good to me.”

He shrugged, embarrassed. “We need to do this. And – and you’ve been good to me too.”

“Not always.”

“Often enough.”

“I’ve been fairly horrible to you too.”

“Not on purpose.”

Giles was silent for a minute. Then, “Xander? Come and sit down? We... I need to talk to you.”

“More plans?”

“I – no. Not plans. I, I need to talk to you about, about what happened before. In the library.”

“In...?”

“When I hit you.”

Xander didn’t pretend not to know what he meant. “You didn’t ‘hit’ me.”

Giles looked guilty. “Most people would say I did.”

“Most people would say I did something fucking dangerous and got two other people hurt and I was damn lucky to get off as lightly as I did. Do we have to go here, Giles?”

“I – we need to talk about it.”

“No, _you_ need to talk about it. I really, _really_ want _not_ to talk about it. I thought we were done with it; you told me we were.” That sounded a bit whiny, and Giles winced.

“I, I don’t want to refight old battles. I told you we, we... It’s not how we got there that I’m worried about. It’s what I _did_. It was wrong, it was completely the wrong thing to do, and I’m sorry. I had no right to do that to you; I apologise, and I swear I won’t do it again.”

Xander fidgeted unhappily. It would be desperately easy just to say ‘O.K., I accept your apology’ and let it go. Simple, and... wrong. Dishonest.

“Why was it wrong?”

Giles looked startled; he plainly hadn’t expected that. “I had no right to do it.”

“I told you that you did.”

“It... doesn’t work quite that way.”

“Why not? Who else can say it?”

“If it comes down to an argument between us, I, I’ve got age and authority on my side.”

“Yeah. So what you say goes.”

“Not when what I say is wrong!”

Xander pulled at his hair; he was so completely failing to get across what he meant. “Giles, I fucked up! You were mad at me, you... dealt with it, you weren’t mad any more. What’s so wrong? Are you saying I didn’t deserve it?”

Giles hesitated and Xander was on him. “You can’t. Because I did. And I felt like crap about it, and then you, you, and then I didn’t. It hurt, yes, and then it was over. And it’s _so_ not fair to bring it up again now!”

Giles shook his head. “I’m not trying to bring it up again! I – I just... it was the wrong way to deal with you. You were... I hated the fact that you were afraid of me.”

But Xander had actually thought about his not-thinky-now list. There had been a lot of still not sleeping well time to think about it in. “I’m not now.”

“I don’t want you to be. I want you to take note when I’m angry but I don’t want you to fear me. I don’t ever want you unwilling to come and tell me if you, if you...”

“If I fuck up.”

“I, I – yes.”

“But that wasn’t the point. I had, and you knew about it. And you were mad, and I knew that too. And we’ve got a deal! You get mad, you yell, I grovel!”

“Which isn’t what we did. And that doesn’t include me hitting you.”

More hair-tearing. “Don’t keep _saying_ that! It’s not what happened! You didn’t knock me down, or punch me, or... or...”

“I know, but...”

“But _what_? We’re agreed that I fucked up. I thought we were agreed that I deserved to be... to be punished in some way. You picked a way that I, O.K., I didn’t like it. That’s sorta the point, right? I don’t like being in detention or having to pick up litter round the school or whatever, and I’ve done both of those and nobody made such a big deal of it. So what’s the big deal here? Why is it different?”

“It’s different because I had no right to do it! I did it because I was angry!”

“And I wanted you not to be!”

Giles leaned wearily back. “God. I just don’t know this stuff.”

Xander came and sat beside him. “Makes two of us. What do you not know?”

Giles turned his head a little. “I suppose I do, actually. If I think about it, I do. What made it wrong... yes, you, all right, you fucked up. And maybe what I did wasn’t too far off what you deserved. But I didn’t do it because you deserved it, Xander: I did it _because I was angry_. And, well, I think any parent, or teacher, ought to know never to punish a child because you’re angry. Or at least, not while you still are. If I had waited long enough to recover my temper, I would never have done it.”

Xander was silent for a moment. Then “You’re not a parent.”

“I...”

“And you’re not really a teacher, either, are you? You don’t have regular classes.”

“That,” said Giles, rather distantly, “is completely irrelevant. I’m an adult. And I’m ashamed of myself because I never realised that I was capable of cruelty to a child.”

“I wish you wouldn’t keep calling me a child.”

Giles dipped his head and smiled. “A young person, then.”

Xander hung his own head. After a moment, Giles leaned over and touched his knee. “Talk to me?”

“Just thinking. How long would you have gone on being mad at me?”

Giles frowned, but he had invited the question so he gave it serious consideration. “A day or two, perhaps? I wouldn’t have gone on shouting, but I think I would have been annoyed – well, until my ribs stopped hurting all the time, maybe.”

“And you think that would have been less cruel than... what you did?”

“You don’t?”

“Two _days_ , Giles? Two days of knowing you were mad, and you were hurt and Buffy was hurt and it was my fault? Two days of knowing I was a complete fuck-up and you hated me? That’s _better_?”

“I never hated you! And you weren’t... Xander, you need to learn to distinguish between what you _are_ , because you are most certainly not a fuck-up, and what, occasionally, you _do_ , which is make a fuck-up. Like the rest of us, including me. I – even when I was, when I was angriest, I never hated you.”

“Leave me feeling guilty for two days and then tell me that.”

“I, I, but... Hell. I should, I should have talked to you about what you’d done, about... about what I expected of you.”

“Giles, I _knew_ what I’d done. And I know what you expect and when I don’t, when I, when I screw that up too... Are you telling me that you could just have said ‘that was naughty, Xander, don’t do it again’ and _not_ still been pissed at me? I’m not _that_ stupid, I’d have known that you hadn’t forgiven me.”

There was a long silence. “So you’re telling me,” said Giles eventually, “that I did the right thing. Even thought I know I didn’t.”

“I was there. I didn’t think it was wrong. Horrible but not wrong.”

“Right thing for wrong reason. Hmph. Xander... I asked the others, I should have had the courage to ask you to your face. Does... is your father violent?”

Xander's mouth fell open so far that he actually heard his jaw click. “What? No! Where did that come from?”

Giles hesitated. “Your... insecurity? And the fact that you were afraid of me. I wasn’t sure quite what...”

“Oh. No.”

They sat for a few moments in silence. Then Giles stirred. “Xander, will you please try very hard not to fuck up? Because I can’t do that again, and I honestly don’t see what I’m to do instead, if I can’t yell or be sarcastic because it upsets you, which upsets me.”

“’Kay. Will you please let this go? Because I do get that half of why you were mad was that you were scared.” He held his breath hoping that Giles wouldn’t ask how he had worked that out.

“I don’t like it. I just... I suppose I’m thinking differently about pain, now.” His gaze rested on his hand and Xander shuddered.

“Sorry, Giles, but that’s sick. Really. I got my ass smacked. You got bones broken. No. Just no. Not the same thing.”

“There are people who would say that the difference is only one of degree.”

“Not smart people.”

“I still feel that I... got it all horribly wrong somehow.”

“Well, we know how that works. Screw-up, confession, getting mad, followed by yelling – and I’m not yelling, sounds to me like you’ve yelled at yourself enough –  grovelling, you’ve done that, nobody mad any more, moving on? _Not_ talking any more about how we feel?”

Giles sighed. “I suppose so. It’s probably the sign of the End of Days, of, of the Apocalypse of Words, you know, when an Englishman is saying ‘tell me how you feel’ and a Californian is saying ‘I don’t want to talk about it’. Welcome to adulthood, Xander; there are no right answers.”

“And I make tea now?”

“Good idea. Oh... except...”

Xander looked pained; Giles looked shifty. “I suppose... since I’m confessing my sins... I knocked your father down in the street.”

“You... what?”

“Knocked him down. I, I’m sorry – well, I’m not, I don’t like him. But I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You feverish again? Because if some random English guy had felled my dad, I think I’da heard about it.”

“He didn’t know I did it. It was a rugby foul. He probably thinks he just fell. But he didn’t.”

Xander started to grin. “You’re supposed to be my rôle-model. You’re supposed to teach me how to behave properly.”

Giles looked away. “I know.”

“So teach me how to do whatever you did?”

The last day of term was as pointless as the last day always was: nobody paying any attention to anything, nothing useful being done, teachers harassed and pupils hyper. Study Hall showed signs of being of no use at all, with Giles supervising: he put on something which Xander found uncomfortably close to The Voice.

“Quiet! _Quiet_! Let me remind you that you are still supposed to be studying. I have no intention of asking what you are doing as long as you are doing it _quietly_. Otherwise I will be sharing out the library scut-work which is heavy and dusty and mind-numbingly dull. Do we understand one another?”

It seemed they did; one or two people had been ‘volunteered’ to help Mr Giles through the week on account of his broken hand. His temper was uncertain and they had enjoyed the experience so little as to make them proactive in hushing those of their associates who were inclined to break out, so the room settled to a hum of low chat. Giles himself came and went with his filing, apparently oblivious to any particular student until the bell.

“Make sure you take everything with you; I’m locking up here. You, your sweater is on the floor. Amy, is that your pen? Harris, you’ve left something.”

Xander, almost at the door, looked back; Giles was holding something out and he automatically took it, murmuring thanks – and then looking into Giles’ face in startled amusement.

The texture under his fingers told him that inside the paper bag was a doughnut.


End file.
